


Behind the Mask-Dick Grayson

by APendingThought



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics), DCU (Comics), Young Justice (Cartoon), Young Justice - All Media Types
Genre: Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Delirium, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fever, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Medical Procedures, Nightmares, Pneumonia, Psychological Trauma, Sick Character, Sickfic, Whump, daddy!Bats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2018-11-19 13:35:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11314473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APendingThought/pseuds/APendingThought
Summary: A festive collection of indulgent H/C scenarios centering on Dick Grayson, the first Robin.    Extensions or codas for the Young Justice cartoon series.





	1. Behind the Curtain

**Author's Note:**

> Beating up Dick is like a year-round pastime on AO3. It deserves its own parade. So why not write one, say I. 
> 
> These particular threads weave into the fabric of Young Justice. Scenes that should have existed if I ran the show.  
> Granted, the tropes I chose didn’t require much stretching. They’ve all taken shape before in so many ways across the internet. I might as well be preaching to the choir.
> 
> I’m up for suggestions? This is just my sandbox, I have no idea what’s going on in yours.
> 
> Enjoy.

It never fails to baffle him how her mind link can be such a tangible thing. How could anyone touch a voice? Or maybe the question is more like how could a telepathic echo fool his tympanic nervous system into believing a cool hand had just brushed across his cheek?

_Focus, idiot._

There are cues to meet and no time to pay heed to the echoes of an arrested childhood. He finds that he sifts through the wildest concepts at the worst moments. His head feels heavy enough. Whizzing through the air in a carefully timed orchestration of flexed muscles and inertia is his business now. To his dismay, he finds that defying gravity isn’t the easy feat it used to be.

While his own brain is gaining success at doing him in, at least hers wasn’t. M’gann’s voice feels like a towel still warm from the dryer as it echoes in his head. She extends her mental link again, concerned and purposefully soothing though for some reason, it unsettles him….feels alien, if he wants to be exact.

Or that could just be the headache.

The lights are too bright, the roar of the crowds below too loud and the metal spike in his temple hasn’t stopped twisting inward all evening.  
He clings to the soft presence lingering cautiously in the sideline of his brain, keeping him afloat despite the frenzied pounding of his blood. Once upon a time that roar had been his bedtime story, the battery upon which he fed day in and day out, city after city, coastline to coastline. It never wore him down, never did anything but whelm him.

That had been another life ago.

 _Didn’t think you’d make it through._ She says without speaking.

 _Neither did I._ It takes more concentration than he'd like to ensure his smile never wavers. Sweat trickles fast down his face, drips down his neck and into his costume, the sensation slimy and irksome. Nonetheless, the first discipline he’d ever been taught: **The show must go on.** Never wipe down in the spotlight. So he lifts his arm in thanks to his audience, waves, and exeunt.

In some ways such a credo mimics his present life—the life that requires him to put all other needs aside for the masses.

He wants to be backstage and collapse. Take off the mask. Take off the cape. Breathe.

He can’t clutch the zip line fast enough, letting the weight of his body carry him down to center ring. The landing is decent if not exactly the showy poise he’d been intending but the crowd doesn’t care. Their applause deafens as he takes his bow, makes his dizziness worse. Now that his feet are on the ground and gravity is a thing again, he remembers that his body needs to adjust.

Not fast enough though.

He swallows, reaches blindly for M’gann.

“Help me backstage?” His legs are shaking and he’s grateful when the taller girl lets him lean against her. A combination of dehydration from the spotlight, adrenaline from the crowd, and stamina burst from that triple flip he’d never fully rehearsed. 

Oh yes, then there’s the bug.

All have conspired against him in the past thirty minutes. Every ounce of his muscled weight crumples against the taller girl as they saunter into the dim, cool confine of the world behind the curtain. Here all the noises are stifled, the harsh lights soften and he can breathe easier. He feels himself begin to sag but checks himself. The dressing rooms are occupied by the tightrope walkers so he limps alongside as she seeks out an alternative place to rest.

He’s out of practice. He’ll be sore tomorrow and not the good kind. He will feel the agony later but later hasn’t come yet. 

_Small mercies._

He presses the back of his wrist against his forehead.

“Robin?” She whispers. 

“Huh?” He swings his unfocused gaze up at her, unsure why she’s speaking. She has the decency to blush. 

“Ummm…is that…your heart?”

Frowning, he notices that his heart is, in fact, palpitating behind his sternum. His wiry frame makes it practically visible. Just another symptom to add to his laundry list. He manages to throw her a half-grin.

“Your alien hearing pick that up in all this unholy din?” 

Her large brown eyes are pretty if alarmed. 

“I can feel it.” It’s his turn to blush. 

“Oh….yeah.” He all but deflates, feeling the dire need to be cooler right the hell now. He is tired. Dog tired. But she shouldn’t have to see that. “Just need to hydrate. I’m fine.” 

“You’re not, though.” She murmurs, easing him down on the edge of a jumbo trailer tire and handing him a bottle of water. “I know it’s not my place to ask but--“

“One sec.” He cuts her off, sighing as he lets his body slump back, eyes falling shut as his head starts to fog up again. He is nowhere near the level he needed for the act, but M'gann is enough of a teammate to wait two more hits before getting an answer.

He takes a long pull from the chilled bottle,, drags his hand over his mouth, careful not to take in too much too fast. Cold water in a warm stomach is asking for a cramp. He swipes in irritation now at the trails of sweat that reappears on his forehead and neck. The water has helped clear his head some and the rapid uneven thumping in his chest begins to even out. She sits beside him awkwardly, fidgeting, as though waiting for him to dismiss her.

“Sorry M’gann.” He pants. “What--?”

He flinches at the touch of her hand across his forehead, his first instinct to pull back and growl at the invasion of his physical space. Shockingly, Megan’s touch won’t let him utter a word. Like her voice inside his head—unwelcome, unasked for but not something he can refuse. 

He feels something he has not even encountered in a long time.

_Marina…she used to…_

Sensing his discomfort, she retracts her hand. “I-I’m sorry.” She stammers awkwardly.

The water takes the edge off his headache but he still feels ready to hit the hay. Aside from his racing heart, she must be able to feel the heat rising like steam from his body. The breeze from outside cools the sweat on his skin but its chill brings no relief. He must feel like a mini space heater to her but, thankfully, she doesn’t say anything more.  


He hugs his legs to his chest and hunches over, pressing his forehead to his knees, hating how small he is making himself. Useful for subterfuge maneuvers and covert operations but now he just needs to center himself. Will the nagging pain away. Batman himself has trained him, taught him how to use his mind to chase away ghosts; unwelcome memories. 

He isn’t sure how he is supposed to feel, he is only aware that at this moment, he feels lousy and the girl from Mars is seeing what never goes on display. 

“Man, been so long…” He mutters to no one.

 _Since you’ve done trapeze work?_ She inquires without speaking.

“No.” 

“She used to do that, didn’t she?” Megan’s voice in his head sounds hesitant.

He nods, too sick to articulate those particular thoughts. Her guilt is written across her pretty face. She’s ventured too deep into the murk inside his head. With the way he is acting right now, though, it wouldn’t take a telepath to figure out the effect this place has on him. He cringes, cursing his own vulnerability. He needs to get out. M'gann’s kindness is not helping.

The adrenaline buzz has long faded, leaving only the hollow emptiness of his fatigue and the pile of work he knows he must do before he’s allowed to turn in. Circus life is never easy, on or off the ring. 

Old man Haley is all he has left.

M'gann speaks again, this time her fingers hover just over his shoulder. 

“Why don’t you head back to the train?” She nods in the direction of the trailers beyond the animal pens. “We’ll do your load-in, ok?”

It’s the most sage advice he’s heard all day. Leave it to the other alien on the team to be the milk of human compassion. But he is Robin and Robin adheres to one rule: What would Batman do? He knows the answer even as he forces his protesting limbs off the tire. The animals in the pen need feeding and it’s his turn today. He can hear the tigers moaning in hunger.

“I’ll be fine.” He says with a stretch, wincing slightly at his overconfidence. He intends for his smile to wipe the expression off her face but it doesn’t. He leaves her, slinging a sack of animal feed over his shoulder and hefting it once before heading out into the train yard. He doesn’t look back.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
The ghosts in his head are loudest at night.

Unconsciousness won’t come. Escape from the dull, raw ache is useless. For all his weariness, he is confined between nagging discomfort and half formed visions in what passes for sleep. The ground moves in a rush beneath him, the rumble and clang of the wheels magnified a thousand times. Gears clash against the memory, hundreds of delighted shouts turned horrified screams.

_One, two, three they come crashing down._

Marina, so nimble she darts through the air like a fish skimming water, transforms to a misshapen clutter of blooded sequins and shining hair. His father’s neck is bent, his black eyes wide and frozen in terror. His mother--

The death of his soul had had witnesses. Hundreds of them. Hundreds of ears bore witness to his silent scream of anguish. 

The kindest two words came from the medic hours later: “on impact”. 

_Small mercies._

He’d had no idea then how incredibly strong the human body could be, the devastation it could have on the fragile Earth below. He never thought he would feel them hit the floor. Sometimes he still sees the enormous cracks in the dirt, blood mingled with sawdust as he pores over calculus problems at his desk. The imperfections of an unpaved road or the sight of a fallen sparrow used to bring the worst nightmares. Paroxysms of guilt and terror still his body in its tracks and he cannot move or breathe.

Bruce had diagnosed it all before. Post-Traumatic Stress. 

His body shakes into his pillow, his first language--the one he uses only on these nights--slips from his tongue. The cheap sponge mattress crumbles in his sweaty grip. He clutches frantically to ground himself, even as his limbs’ violent trembling surpasses his control.

He is too focused on breathing to notice them enter, to notice his lights flicker on. There are hands without faces on his skin. He wants them gone, these ghosts. They have no place here, they have no right to see him like this!

He tries to tell them and he does—only these hands do not obey.  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Connor is puzzled. 

Superboy doesn't recognize human fragility right away though the makeup of his own physiology mimics the fundamentals. The Kryptonian’s confusion plays innocently across his face even as he follows Artemis to observe and listen. His senses are already alight, his hearing trained on the frantic rhythm of Robin’s pulse, the same rhythm that registers danger or heightened awareness.

He looks around but Robin’s bunker is quiet and dark. He senses no other presence. Only Robin lies on his bed, writhing. Artemis takes charge while he stands there, motionless, still scanning. Gently, she begins working at prying Robin’s fingers loose from the death grip he has on the bed linens. 

“What’s he saying?” She satisfies herself with one sweaty hand loose, clutching it firmly in her own. 

“It’s Romani, the gypsy language.” Connor supplies, his geno-morph education flickering at the edges of his memory. “He’s saying: Leave. _Go away. Get out of here._ ”

“Sure hope he doesn’t mean us.” Artemis’s pale brows knit with worry, her lip caught between her teeth. She grimaces as she combs her fingers through his damp hair, rubbing the nape of his neck. “Ugh, he’s soaking wet!” She glances over her shoulder. “Get me a towel?”

Roy’s presence halts the brief conversation. His hackles are raised. He pushes past the Kryptonian as though he were invisible, kneeling beside Artemis. He presses his hand to Robin’s forehead, his mouth set in a grim line.

“Thought he was just tired.” Connor shrugs. “Kid never takes a break.”

“He’s not a kid.” Roy growls. “And are you blind, Kent? He has a fever!”

This bristles Artemis. “Lay off him, Speed! He’s not the enemy here.”

Roy doesn’t seem convinced but he's more concerned by how Robin shrinks away and moans in his dreaming.  


Connor’s glare calms at a gentle touch from M'gann’s mind when she enters. Roy immediately takes the helm, nudging Artemis brusquely aside to assess Robin. Artemis concedes though she is slow to release Robin’s hand.

“Did any of the guys on this team experience normal childhood? Or even Tylenol?” She grouses, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Be quiet for once, Artemis.” Roy leans over the teen and places both hands on his shoulders, pulling his slight frame up from the damp mattress. Artemis watches his careful, precise movements. He seems to be speaking slowly to him and then it hits her. If Robin decides Roy is a threat, this encounter could go south. Her stomach clenches. 

“Robin.” Roy commands, louder this time. He shakes him but the young man remains unaware. 

“Fine.” Roy grits his teeth and begins peeling off the damp shirt. He pauses to scan Robin’s bare back and torso, ensuring he’s not passed over any hidden injury. 

“Grab me a fresh shirt.” He orders anyone listening. It is Connor who silently fetches it. 

Roy stabilizes Robin’s weight against his shoulder, working the black T-shirt over his head and pulling his arms through the sleeves. At one point, Robin’s eyes flutter and he weakly tries to push away but Roy’s grip is firm. 

“Ssshh! Easy! We’re gonna get you some medicine, ok?” Roy delivers this information curtly to Robin as though he were cognizant before addressing the group.

“I’m taking him to the infirmary.” He announces. The bedding is ruined and needs replacing. The room itself is hot and stuffy.

“Any idea what we’re dealing with?” Artemis asks. 

“Humans living 24-7 in close contact with one another, roaming place to place are bound to exchange some pretty nasty germs.” Connor shrugs. “Doesn’t seem all that mysterious.”

“He mentioned just after our set it was the flu.” M’gann offers. “Can the flu do this?” 

“Not to him.” Shifting, he hoists Robin off the bed, gathering the slight frame into his arms. The boy’s long limbs dangle as his teammate moves him into a better position, his head resting against Roy’s shoulder. The older archer braces himself with a soft curse when Robin jerks and starts deliriously. Artemis moves on instinct to help but Roy shakes her off.

His body is small and he would look like a child except he is not, maybe never was. His chest is broad and developed like a man’s, the lean muscle of his biceps powerful and hard. Nothing about him is soft.

“Should we contact Batman?” Artemis asks.

Roy eases his way past her into the train corridor with a sneer.

“Not unless you wanna make a permanent enemy outta Rob.”

“But don’t you think--?”

“Look!” Roy growls impatiently. “Even if all you see is a sick thirteen year old, you are still HIS subordinate! We do nothing until he clears it. Got it?”

Stunned, Artemis can only nod. Resolute and silenced, she agrees if only for momentary peace. Roy turns back around again.

“Let’s just… wait until he responds to treatment.” With his burden, he storms down the corridor, Artemis at his heels. 

M’gann exchanges a worried glance with Connor, her eyes betraying her need to speak. The Kryptonian nods, one hand squeezing her shoulder. It’s scary how well they understand one another.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
The infirmary car is kept under lock and key. Too many dependencies under one roof make that a necessity. It’s not difficult for Roy to break in, even shouldering the weight of his stricken leader. The lock mechanism snaps with a few practiced twists. The tiled interior of this car is chilly, sterile and reasonably up to date for a mobile hospital. A wheeled gurney covered with a white sheet stands silently in its center, the pharmaceutical cabinet bolted to the wall. Gently, Roy sets Robin down onto the gurney and turns to investigate medications, eyes scanning lists of names and dosages.

Artemis heads for the sink. 

Locating a stainless steel emesis bowl, she fills it-- the splash of cold water against its steel sides echoes loudly in the silence. She sits beside the cot, dipping a folded gauze dressing into the bowl.

“That won’t do much good.” Roy says when she presses the compress to Robin’s forehead. He flinches, tries to turn his face away. She quiets him gently before lashing out at Roy.

“You care for him in your way, I’ll care for him in mine, ok?” Snapping at the Archer has become second nature tonight but then again, she’s worried and he’s asking for it.

Roy sneers, eyes never leaving the rows of glass vials. “Why don’t you do something useful like find me a vein?”

“Jerk…” Artemis mutters but her fingers trace gingerly down Robin’s upturned arm. 

Roy finds a bag of saline and a broad spectrum antibiotic. With latex-gloved hands he begins prepping a table for an IV. Artemis ignores him, concerned more about how feverish Robin’s skin feels beneath her fingers, how pale and sweaty he is. She wants to just grab her friend and shake him back to wakefulness but doesn’t want a fist to the jaw.

The archer stands beside her, his presence cold and impassive. Artemis nods, accepting the rubber tourniquet. She knots it high on his bicep, tying it off where the large vein begins to bulge. She swipes an alcohol pad across a patch of skin in the crook of his elbow, clamping down firmly on his wrist to hold him steady. The constant motion of the train makes this already a challenging maneuver. She looks anxiously to Roy.

Injection ready, her partner moves in. “Here we go.” 

Deftly, the needle slides into the soft flesh of Robin’s inner elbow. It’s such a small space, Artemis notes, such an easy place for an injection to go awry. Were he awake and in his full senses, Robin would take a shot with his usual stoicism. But he is not himself now. At first, he fidgets as Roy pushes the cannula deeper in. Then, he fights.

“Hold him!” Roy grunts, eyes never leaving the pale line of Robin’s vein. “I don’t wanna stick him again!”

Instantly Artemis obeys, pressing her weight against Robin’s torso to keep him from writhing off the gurney while Roy finishes taping down the line. The teen is so restless, they end up strapping his arm in a restraint to keep him from pulling out the tube.

All three are panting once the air settles.

Artemis is grateful for the quiet seclusion of this particular car, and she slumps back into her chair. Roy lumbers down beside Artemis with a sigh. “Looks like no one is getting much sleep tonight.”

Artemis nods numbly, her mind far away. She takes up the washcloth again and begins wiping Robin down, more for something to do than anything else. She supposes the sweating is a good sign even if it does make him look uncomfortable. Roy drags his hand tiredly across the back of his neck.

“Could go for some coffee about now.” He sighs.

“You and me both.”

“Gotta check his vitals.” He stretches, cracks his neck.

She hums in agreement. He became symptomatic so sudden that anything goes. When Roy doesn’t make any move, she clears her throat.

“Uh….vitals?”

He nods but does not speak. Gradually, he gets up and starts shuffling through the supply cabinets. 

“Is the mission off?” She wonders out loud. Roy’s shoulders shake slightly as though he finds that funny. He sets down a digital thermometer, a stethoscope and a sphygmomanometer. 

“Up to him.” 

“Yeah, but Rob’s outta commission right now.” She sighs, dejected.

“Give the guy some credit. You know who raised him.”

“Afraid I do.” She mutters.

He wraps the cuff around Robin’s other bicep, ignoring when he squirms in discomfort. He inflates the cuff and slips the stethoscope beneath it, listening for the radial pulse. The air releases in a slow hiss.

“120 over 95."

“Is that normal?”

“Little high for his age.” The cuff comes off with a rip. Roy thrusts the stethoscope beneath the damp T-shirt and looks down at his watch. He frowns. “His heart’s racing.”

Artemis shrugs lamely. “He’s had a rough night.” 

“Maybe I can find some sedatives…?” Roy mutters, shifting his gaze over to the stock cabinets. 

“ **No** more drugs!” Artemis hisses. “Geez, what is it with you?”

Roy doesn’t answer but shifts the bell slightly to the side of Robin’s ribcage to listen for breath sounds. 

“Resps are clear.” He tugs the stethoscope away. He fixes his eyes on Artemis. “You get his temp, I’m grabbing some caffeine.” Stripping away the disposable gloves, he heads for the door. Artemis sighs, twirling the plastic thermometer between ring and forefinger. 

“Okay kiddo.” She sighs down to her comatose charge. “Open up.”  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
The coffee makes her feel alive again. Jerk that he is, she half wants to hug Roy for scoring it. The medical car is tense and uncertain and Robin hasn’t improved much at all since the line went in. Artemis doesn’t even notice her left knee bobbing up and down, fueled by the train’s motion and caffeine. 

Their leader's temperature is soaring though, weirdly, he’s begun to shiver. She can’t tell if that’s a good sign or just a new symptom to add to the laundry list. The saline pumping through his veins isn’t warmed and it’s probably freezing the poor dude from inside. But that’s not her biggest worry. The perpetual nightmare still has him in its grip, muscles tightly corded with tension. Intermittently, he whispers or cries out. When he isn’t writhing, he gasps for breath as though it’s being stolen.

It doesn’t add up.

Roy is calling this non-time observation but she’s beginning to suspect he feels as helpless as she does. There is something vaguely paranormal about Robin’s behavior though she doesn’t dare voice that thought.

She hears M’gann through the mental link before she sees her.

_How is he?_

_The same. Worse? I don’t know._ Her frustration rises above her fatigue.

_We’re coming in._

Connor and M’gann enter just as her eyes begin to close. Connor’s eyes are drawn immediately to the strap holding Robin’s forearm immobile. His narrowed gaze shifts darkly to Roy.

 _That bad?_ Connor’s mental link breaks the collective silence.

“He’s stable.” Roy speaks, voice thick from disuse. “Just put the line in, it’ll be a few hours for it to take.” 

“Any theories?”

Before Roy can answer, M’gann cuts him off.

“It’s this place.” 

Artemis blinks in confusion but Roy just stares, uncomprehending, at the alien girl. “Come again?”

Artemis watches her face. The extraterrestrial girl’s lips set in a firm line as she approaches the gurney, coming to a stop next to the IV stand. Robin twists uneasily on the mattress, clawing feebly at his trapped wrist. Her eyes scan every inch of his body.

Connor speaks. “Whatever is going on here, it’s messing with his head. If so, then Megan’s the only one who can get us answers.”

Roy’s scowl communicates instantly that he’s not on board. “You think I’m going to allow some Martian to probe around in his head?”

“Got something better?” Connor folds his powerful arms across his chest. Roy is on his feet, standing over Robin’s body.

“I do, actually. We let the meds run their course and back off.”

Their leader’s agitation takes that moment to peak. His trembling violently increases and he begins making a series of sounds. At first, they are choked and barely audible but they quickly morph into delirious, half-shaped syllables. Snatches of Romani prayer in a detached monotone spew from his lips. Artemis shudders. 

“He’s suffering!” M’gann pleads. Before anyone can react, a slim-fingered emerald green hand is pressed against Robin’s brow. Robin twitches beneath her touch as though pained but M’gann persists, bearing down on him.

“A-ANGHK!” 

Roy moves like lightening.

“Stay OUT of his head!” He roars, thrusting her forcefully aside. She cries out in alarm. Connor is livid, the neck of Roy’s shirt clenched in his quaking fist. No one breathes. The Martian girl scrambles to her feet.

“Connor, STOP!”

Artemis can feel her pulse thud in her throat.

The Kryptonian is not famous for his restraint. Something primal and hungry reverberates from his throat, blue eyes boring deep into Roy’s glare. He holds his gaze a moment before loosening his hold. 

“Hands off.” Is all he says.

With more force than necessary, he releases the archer. Roy stumbles back slightly but squares his stance.

“You keep her away from Robin!” Roy barks. “For all we know, she’s the one causing this!”

M'gann’s thin shoulders droop. “I’m sorry you don’t trust me.” She murmurs, averting her gaze. Something like shame edges her voice but it is clear she is not backing down.  
“We are a team and I have just as much right to help him as you!”

“Robin is still in command.” Roy counters. “No one screws with his head unless he consents, or don’t aliens have any respect for human memory?”

His words are aimed to sting but if they affect M’gann, she gives no sign. Her voice remains steady. “This is happening. Maybe you can watch him suffer but I won’t.”

Roy’s chest heaves, fists clenching and unclenching white at his sides. It’s clear he is against this, worry for his friend and distrust of the alien battling for dominance in his head. But Artemis slips between his body and Megan’s, her voice calm and grounding. 

“Your way. My way. HER way. In this team, we trust one another.”

Roy closes his eyes for a beat. He takes a hard glance at his stricken leader before stepping down. M’gann moves past him, oblivious to him. Her focus is on Robin.  
His response to her touch is instantaneous. Robin’s spine arches violently with a piercing gasp. It is all the archer can do to keep him from sliding to the floor. He thrashes and fights, the cords of his muscles straining against the restraint, but M’gann does not waver. The pale hollows of her eyes alight. Telekinetic energy builds beneath her palm, thrumming as it emanates across Robin’s face, bathing him in its glow.

Artemis can only watch, terrified. Connor moves to grasp her shoulders, keeping her steady when her wobbling knees threaten to give way. What is taking place before her bears striking resemblance to an exorcism. Robin’s mouth opens in a silent scream, the powerful tremors of his body rattle and shake the stainless steel frame of the gurney.

The train whistle shrills a warning.

“C-Connor?” Artemis clings to him in the dark. Before Connor can move, it is done. Robin sags in Roy’s grip, his slight frame limp in the archer’s arms. His shaking stops. All is quiet, dimmed and still. 

Megan’s eyes snap open. Shuddering, she backs away from him. 

“What did you do?” Roy swings his gaze on her. M’gann does not speak, still reeling. She exhales slowly. The pause takes too long for Roy.

“What did you do?” He shouts.

“That was….” Her voice barely rises above a whisper, groping for a proper term. “…a _doozy?_ ”

Clearly, Wally’s tutelage is rubbing off on her.

“M’gann, is he…?” Artemis cannot hide the panic in her voice.

“He is resting now. Though it was difficult to navigate.” M’gann says wearily. 

Roy looks down at his friend, two fingers frantically searching for his pulse. Robin’s chest rises and falls in an even rhythm. 

“Something inside him was out of place. Something…missing.” M’gann continues.

“Robin suffered a tragedy when he was nine.” Roy murmurs, shifting an acidic gaze to M'gann. “But you knew that.”

The color in Megan’s cheeks deepen. “Yes. I could not avoid it.”

“So the cat is outta that bag.” Roy grits his teeth. “But that still doesn’t explain what you did.”

M’gann rubs her arm self-consciously, hesitating. No matter what answer she gives, it is unlikely Roy will approve.

“I blocked his memories—those from his past. The ones he’s kept buried. The ones trying to turn on him. They’ve been at him since we arrived.”

“You what?!”

“It…seemed to be what he needed most.” 

“How could you know that?!” Roy growls.

“I only did what he asked.” She countered. “ This place--it wouldn’t let him sleep.” Megan’s voice shrinks into itself. “He just wanted to sleep.”

She reaches out again to the boy, attempts to smooth back his hair but Roy stops her. 

“You’ve done enough, thanks.”

“But M’gann,” Artemis says gently. “Are you sure tricking his subconscious will help? What happens when he wakes up?”

“Human minds are astonishingly self-preserving. All I did was throw a blanket over the pain, like a temporary filling. I didn’t erase it. I couldn’t do that even if I wanted to.”

Roy readjusts Robin’s slight frame against the mattress, pulling a sterile sheet up to his chin before resting a hand on his chest. 

“I won’t say I understand exactly what you did…but thanks.” 

M'gann leans into Connor’s arms as he folds them around her. She nods to acknowledge Roy and lets her boyfriend lead her outside. 

Exhaustion catches up with Artemis all at once. Her legs give out and she slides back against the train car wall, sighing.

“What a night…” Her groan does not go unnoticed.

“You’re tired.” Roy seats himself beside the gurney, inspecting and adjusting the IV tube. “I’ll take first watch. You better hit the hay.”

Artemis, for once, cannot argue with him.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Robin dreams.

Old Man Haly is the only true American in his circus. Born and raised in low country, Alabama, he’s a Southern boy and still cooks like it. Dick finds him most mornings brewing a pot of coffee on his stove and frying up sausages he claims to grind and smoke himself.

Dick can never forget the smell but doesn’t like the tall tales about where Haly sources his meat.

The once magnificent bay horse now too old to trot. The runt of the performing pig litter. Remember, Pogo the Chimp? He was a tough one.  
The circus can be a grisly place.

Haly’s people come from all corners. Dick Grayson had been raised hearing and speaking several dialects of several languages. The Chinese tumblers pat him on the head and reward him with sweet slices of candied haw whenever he manages to recite their numbers during practice. 

The stagehands were mostly Russians and Poles, men built like graffiti-ed walls, tattooed across their chests. So long as Haly asked no questions, they told him no lies. The African and Caribbean cooks and roustabouts spoke any number of colorful patois from Creole to Swahili. Dick liked to follow them around and copy their songs while they worked.

_“Carrry me ackee go-a Linstead Mahket  
Not a quati would sell.”_

The Viennese magician, Von Hessleborg, had traveled with his mother’s troupe since her start in the business. He’d fawn over the infant Grayson like a grandson. Always ready with a slice of homemade strudel and horrifying bedtime tales depicting the gruesome fates of naughty children who did not mind their parents. These gory tales were especially useful every time mother reminded him to stay away from the cougar and tiger pens when the big cats were in heat.

“Never move quickly once you enter their space.” Piotr, the trainer, would say to him. “Dart and they’ll think you’re deer. Shiver and they’ll think you’re a rabbit.”

As young as five years old, Dick had learned to breathe calmly, to sit still as stone on the sawdust coated ground inside the holding. He’d been born following instructions exactly. If a lioness approached him in curiosity, he was to do nothing. The graceful sway of the big cat’s muscles and the moist heat of its breath surrounded him.

Though her eyes peered at him like gold coins flashing in the shadow, he never once looked up.

“Making eye contact with a lion is an invitation you don’t want.”

His mother rarely objected to these visitations though father fretted endlessly over allowing his youngest to be locked inside a cage with wild animals. 

All young Dick Grayson understands is that the world behind the curtain contains his colorful, magical, frightening family. It is no place for weakness.

He’s still only a baby, then. 

When his small limbs ache from rigorous training and he cries in pain for his mother’s lap, she knows better than to let his whimpers wake the crew. Privacy is a rare commodity in show business so she lifts his weary body on her shoulder and takes him to the only secret space to be had in this controlled chaos. Alone along the spangles and limp threads, loose hems and bloodstains, embraced by the scent of a thousand days of sweat and dust, she closes the wardrobe door behind her. Here it is safe, quiet, and dark. She cradles him in her lap and sings until sleep claims him.

His name is Dick Grayson and in this life--in this place-- he is nothing else but hers.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Robin is not pleased to find himself where he is. 

When his eyes blink open and all sensation returns, he is aware of only two things—the train has stopped and his wrist won’t move. It stings. He is cold, sticky and furious. 

“What the HELL!”

He is upright too quickly and regrets it.

“Morning.” Roy’s voice beside him, shuffling sleepily in his chair, his movements are slow.

“Unngh.” He lifts a hand to his pounding head, blinking rapidly. “Feel like I’ve been hit by a bus.”

“You nearly were, shortstack. But hey, you should see the bus.” Roy’s exhaustion is palpable as he gets to his feet, pushing Robin’s unwilling body back against the gurney. Robin glares up at Roy.

“Explain. Now.” He growls.

“You were sick, Rob.” Roy rubs his forehead wearily.

“I don’t need you to explain THAT. What am I doing in a restraint? Where’s the team? What country are we in?”

“Relax, Chief. We’re in Brussels. The team is getting shut eye. You’re in a restraint because you’re a slippery little devil and we didn’t want you terrorizing the neighborhood.”

“That means…?”

“You were pretty out of it. We almost contacted…”

Robin instantly bristles at these words and Roy quickly corrects himself.

“But we DIDN’T! You’re still Team Lead. But you were going through something heavy last night.”

Robin groans in humiliation, squeezing his eyes shut.

“GYAH!”

Roy busies himself with finding a bottle of water and cracking it open. He offers it.

“You’re furious. I get it. Don’t sweat, it won’t end up on the mission report.” Robin pushes the bottle away.

“Think I care about that? I jeopardized the mission, let down my team. That’s another night off surveillance. Who knows what’s been heisted since—?“

“You worry too much.” Roy stops his tirade with a hand on his chest.

“Roy. Don’t—“

“Hey. Unlike Bats, you have a better grip on what you can and cannot control. You needed the rest. Your fever got worse, gave us a bit of a scare.”

Roy reaches over his torso to undo the wrist restraint and gently pull out the cannula. The clear saline bag has long been drained, shriveled on its hook. With all that intake, Robin will need a restroom very soon. 

“There’s gaps.” Robin mutters, eyes closed. He winces. “I remember turning in last night. I think that’s when the bug caught up with me. But after that…” He frowns. 

“I can fill you in. But first, vitals. How do you feel now?”

“Woozy. Head still ringing. But otherwise…”

“…you’ll manage?” Roy slips a thermometer beneath his tongue.

Robin’s grumbled response does not register the humor.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Opening night in Brussels doesn’t start until evening and dress rehearsals have been cancelled due to the delayed load out. Robin leaves the infirmary determined to make up for lost time. He downloads security footage from each theft site though the international hacking takes some extra time. Translating codes from several languages across several international borders gets his mind back in the game. Satisfied with what data he manages to garner, he stows his gauntlet safely and dons his acrobat uniform. Roy is keeping his distance, exhausted by last night’s vigil. He’s requested the night off and Haly has granted it though Robin has not. He’s ordered to remain on the peripheral should anything arise.

Tonight the only taste of danger Brussels will enjoy will be from Dan, Dane, Diane, and Dawn. 

He isn’t eager to call the team debrief just yet. 

Shame is very real for him. He doesn’t handle it well. As a teen, as Batman’s protégé, as a leader he has let them all down and he hates it. Having to pick up his slack has put Roy out. Worse, he has no idea what his mental slip-up has done to his credibility in their eyes. If Batman were here, he’d—

_No, he can punish himself all he wants when the mission is over_

In the meantime, however…

The crack of his fist against the boxcar wall leaves a dent. A deep one. It makes him feel much better.

The walls are thin on a circus train. Violence typically brings people running to investigate. Fortunately, they are his people. 

“Robin! You ok?” Artemis is breathless. 

He is quick to conceal his throbbing knuckles.

“Yeah.” He breathes. “I’m fine.”

Immediately she throws her arms around him. His body goes rigid with discomfort. He’s not used to this. At school he is the nerd kid, the low profile. He’s hands off for a reason.  
His awkward posture delivers the message. Artemis quickly backs down.

“It’s uh, good to see you on your feet.” She stutters.

“I’m just grateful I don’t have to take your job.” Connor declares lightly, leaning against the wall. 

“We need to talk.” Robin informs them. “Where’s M’gann?”

“She’s getting ready.” Artemis plops herself down on the sofa and settles in, clearly expecting a lecture. Robin is all too glad to disappoint her.

Robin dips his head. All the better. He doesn’t want to repeat himself.

“I want to thank you. Roy filled me in, said things got a little out of hand last night.”

Artemis raises an eyebrow. “Out of hand? Dude, you were cuckoo for cocopuffs!”

Robin grits his teeth. Artemis and Connor exchange troubled glances. 

“Whatever I said when I was…under. Whatever you heard, you mustn’t--!”

“I didn’t know you spoke Romani.” Artemis shrugged. 

A muscle in Robin’s jaw twitches. “I can’t explain that.” He replies.

“I can.” 

M’gann enters the room, dressed and ready for the evening's performance. Her skin tone has changed to a dusky rose, glowing against the bright white of her costume.

“Can you guys give us a moment alone please?” She asks. Artemis and Connor exchange glances but neither one raises any questions.

“Sure. Just remember, curtain call in fifteen.” The door shuts behind them with a loud click.

Robin meets Megan’s eyes. 

“I’m so glad you’re alright.” She breathes, hands clasped in front of her chest.

“You saw.” Her bright expression drops, guilt washing across her features. 

“You were in so much pain, I thought—“

“Don’t.” He stops her. “I’m not angry.”

She blushes. “I…guess this brings us closer, huh?”

“In some ways.” He shrugs. “I’m glad I can trust you, especially when I’m down.”

“Always.” A smile tugs hesitantly at her mouth.

He fully expects their exchange to end there. There’s a show to do, a mission to get back on track but his mind is drifting of its own accord. Something pulls at the core of him, something he knows only she understands. As though reading him, she whispers.

“Robin?”

“Your shape-shifting.” He hugs himself, feeling the total idiot. “It can’t…can’t pull from memories, can it?”

Her eyes widen but quickly, she comprehends. “I can give it a try? I’ll need you to open up to me.”

Warm fingertips press against his brow. He releases a shaky breath but it does nothing to stop the relentless pounding of his heart. He feels her enter his mind, weaving delicately through the channels of his memory. The room begins to vibrate.

All he hears is the sound of his own breath. All he feels are her fingers against his face.

When he opens his eyes again, he can hardly see for the tears. 

_“Dita, Mariana.”_

His sister's smile shines back at him.


	2. Behind the Data

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An extension of the episode "Failsafe". Dick Grayson was the only one of the team to break a sweat upon waking from the training exercise. Hmm....

Batman is not pleased by this outcome. 

His faith in his ward is sound as his reliance on him. He would not have sent him or Artemis into such an ordeal were he not completely assured of their ability to walk away from it. But now he regrets this decision deeply.

The exercise had gone wrong. Very wrong.

He should have foreseen this, should have been more inquisitive about the girl, M’gann, and her psychic bond with her team. He dislikes un-factored risks and inexplicable results. Now both Artemis and Dick have been compromised. 

Wally is woozy. He has shrugged off the effect of this botched training in record time. Speed is his game, his amped metabolism protecting him from most lasting consequences. For him, this is nothing more than a bad dream.

The clone—Connor, as he is called, is silent and wrathful though what lurks beneath his silence is anyone's guess. He has known Clark to brood in similar fashion. The Kryptonian's genetically-engineered mind is not fragile, had never been designed so. As a product of Project Cadmus, Bruce surmises that his memories are accustomed to being tampered with. All trauma of his mock death aside, it must infuriate him to know he has willingly allowed himself to be compromised again. His fingers card repeatedly through his wolf companion’s shaggy ruff. Bruce figures it's better than punching holes through the wall.

Kaldur stirs sluggishly, reacquainting himself with his limbs. He must fight for consciousness but it is a battle he will win eventually on his own. The children of Atlantis possess a stunning knack for regeneration. 

Artemis is only half- aware, her blood pressure alarmingly low. Cognitively, she is in and out but that is to be expected after waking from a coma. She will require immediate treatment.

Then there’s Robin. 

The boy is drenched. His civilian clothes--his favored gray jacket and black shirt--are soaked in sweat. He lies trembling on the table and hasn’t stopped since M'gann’s violent jolt shattered their mental link. 

The Dark Knight is quickly at his ward’s side, supporting his back as he struggles to sit.

“He’s burning up.” He informs J'ann, pressing an ungloved hand to Robin’s brow. The boy lists sideways in Batman’s steady grip, eyes fluttering. “You never mentioned an immune response as a side effect.” 

“That’s because it isn’t.” J'ann's deep voice rumbles in concern. “This exercise has rarely been tried on humans. There are still questions we must address later.”

“Agreed.” Batman hums, focusing his attention back to Robin as he feebly attempts to right himself under the gaze of his mentor. Batman is all too aware of his ward’s uncompromising training. Unfortunately, his desire to adhere to it outweighs the benefit.

“Robin.” Batman commands him sharply. “Stop it.”

Instantly, the boy obeys. His trembling stills, breath halting in his chest. He swallows weakly. 

“N-not…” His voice sounds uncharacteristically small. “…feeling the aster.”

Batman meets J’ann’s eyes. “We’re leaving. I’m taking Artemis.” In one fluid motion, he eases Robin off the table, extending a forearm for him to lean on. Robin will exit on his own two feet. Clark carries the girl, still comatose, to the Batmobile waiting in park above ground.

J'ann nods his consent. His sad gaze drifts to his beloved niece, still sobbing uncontrollably in Captain Marvel’s arms.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Alfred has been ordered to see to the girl. By the time of their arrival to Wayne Manor, Artemis is coherent enough to respond to rudimentary questions. She slurs her words, however, and has difficulty recalling events. She is shaken but resilient. Batman can only guess what worse she has endured in life to make her become so.  


She is resting now in the manor proper under the care of his butler. Alfred’s ministrations are, as always, congenial. He addresses her politely between sips of lukewarm tea, continues to keep her awake. When the observation period is over, he will drive her home and explain nothing. Alfred is, as ever, a professional at discretion.

Dick is Batman’s matter.

Robin is Dick and Dick is Robin. There exists little between them, above ground and below. He knows Robin would have fought to keep standing even as his vision blurred and his strength ebbed. Dick is no different.

The teen’s footsteps shake unsteadily as they enter the cave. Batman does not want to carry him, has not done so since Dick was a child. The boy is quiet, faint tremors course through his limbs as he half stumbles into the vast, shadowed space that is their lair.

“Lie down.” Batman tugs his cowl down, readies his equipment. “I’m going to monitor you.”

Dick says nothing, eyes vacant and glassy. He does not flinch when practiced hands insert the line into his vein. He does not blink when electrode leads are positioned beneath his shirt. Batman isn’t taking chances.

The boy’s physical condition improves rapidly. Saline to replace lost fluids and stabilize blood pressure, an anti-pyretic to bring down his temperature. Yet still his ward remains apprehensive, fearful of slipping under again though it is clear he is exhausted. Batman notes the change in his heart rate. He reaches out a gloved hand to touch his shoulder.

The contact brings the boy back to the present. The blip on the readout quickens.

“Artemis?” Is the first word he utters.

“Alfred is preparing to take her home.”

Dick’s body sags, chest rising and falling visibly. He licks dry lips. “KF. M’gann. Kaldur. Are they--?”

“Safe. They’re safe, chum.” 

Batman hears the relief in his sigh, notes how the EKG falls into a less erratic pattern. The even vitals reveal he is ready for basic questions.

“How much do you remember?”

“We…we had a training exercise.”

His eyes close.

“You assumed leadership only when there was no other option but to do so. You met every challenge the program designed for you but the process of elimination—“

“Death.” Dick mumbles.

“Yes, death. You-or your mental manifestation--expired in this training. Somehow it seems to have compromised your immune system. How are you feeling now?”

Dick takes a moment before answering.

“Better now that the world has stopped spinning.” He pauses with a frown. “I got sick?”

“A fever. It’s going down now.”

Dick looks confused. As if he’s not already been mentally overtaxed, the last thing he needs is to fall ill. Finals are coming up this week. Before he can dwell too deeply on it, Batman is at his side again, preparing to draw a blood sample.

“I don’t believe the symptom poses any real threat but just in case.” He explains. “Pump your first a few times.” Dick sighs as Batman removes the intravenous line and exchanges it with the syringe. Dick watches his blood flow quickly into the plastic tube, questions still racing in his head.

“We’re done here.” Batman labels the tube and gets to work. 

“Patrol tonight?” Dick asks, detaching the adhesive leads from his chest. He pushes himself up and off the medical table. Batman hums, not looking up from the slide he is preparing.

“You already know the answer.”

Dick’s shoulders drop. Indeed, he does.

“Wash up. Alfred will have dinner waiting. Debrief in my office, seven sharp.”  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Martian Manhunter is present when he opens the door. Batman, seated at the head of his conference table, has clearly been in mid-discussion, fingers interlaced beneath his chin. 

They both pause to acknowledge Dick's entrance. The boy has changed into a fresh T-shirt and jeans, his hair combed back in the same manner he prefers for school. It's his civilian attire, in acceptance of the fact that Robin is on sick leave tonight. 

“You’re late.”

Dick bows his head in apology. It is enough.

“How are you feeling?” J'ann asks.

“Better, thanks.” Dick seats himself. His color is back to normal, eyes clear and focused. “How’s M’gann?” J'ann breathes a belabored sigh.

“My niece is still distraught over what occurred in the training. She is, I admit, prone to self-blame.”

“She isn’t the only one.”

J'ann nods. "I fear the effects of today may linger in the weeks to come. I trust you are prepared, Robin."

Dick nods. What else can he be?

Batman speaks.

“Manhunter and I have been reviewing the bio-data from today’s debacle. It seems when M’gann usurped Artemis’ subconscious, her body’s instinct was to shut down. Though her mind was sharp enough to go into preservation mode, her tympanic nervous system sent her into a coma which would have been irreversible had Joann not intervened.”

Dick frowns at this news. That had clearly been too close a call.

“All that makes sense but it doesn’t explain my fever.”

Batman hums, eyes narrowed to a slit behind his mask. “My first assumption was that just after a mental trauma—in other words, a simulation of death--- a teenage boy suffering from symptomatic shock is nothing abnormal. Two things your body will naturally do to help it return to stasis would be immediate autonomic activity and an adrenaline surge.”

“Right.” Dick nods, comprehending. “The fight or flight mechanic.”

“Exactly. The fever acted as a defense. Despite Megan’s assault on your sympathetic nervous system, you didn’t once fall into a coma. Your automatic immune system kicked in as a means to keep your physical body alive until the link was broken.”

Dick lets this information sink in.

“So Artemis gave up and I fought.” He whistles. “Funny how that works.”

“Essentially, yes.” Batman says. “It is Manhunter’s belief that your specialized training conditioned you to do so. That you did not give up even after your subconscious had expired.”

J'ann hums his admiration. “Your ward is a credit to you, Batman.”

Batman cocks a smile. “He knows.”


	3. Behind the Cowl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick Grayson is not forthcoming with his needs when he first arrives at Wayne Manor. This forces Bruce Wayne to take a stance on his new position in life.

Dick falls ill a few weeks after his arrival to Wayne Manor.

In no way should this have surprised anyone. Grief takes an insurmountable toll on the young. The transition was terribly new, for both of them. Bruce, however, is intimate with grief. He understands too well how it can shape a person…or kill them.

Dick’s pain is too quiet for the child he is. If he does weep, Bruce never sees or hears it. And he has excellent hearing.

At nine years old, Dick has made it very clear that he has few needs. Space, plentiful as it was in the sprawling manor, is his only spoken demand. Bruce has been warned by others that children behave strangely in extreme circumstances. Backing off is something he can do all too easily.

Alternatively, Bruce throws himself into work, keeping respectful peripheral on the boy who haunts his home like a ghost. He still receives daily intel from Alfred. Is the boy eating? Is he sleeping? Alfred’s reports are generally dismal though they shift depending on the day.  


It is December and Dick takes his solitude in the parlor, legs swinging absently from the enormous stuffed leather armchair by the window. No lamps are lit. The radio is cold and untouched. The boy has seemingly been content for hours merely watching the flurry of pale flakes dance, transfixed as though the window glass were the flicker of a television.  


The sandwich on the coffee table goes unnoticed.

Bruce allows himself to wonder but does not interfere. 

At some point, the quality of his silence changes. His paleness grows paler. His distant blue eyes glaze over. His footing becomes unsteady—not normal for a child raised walking the length of a steel rope. Dick’s presence wanes, retreating from the front of the house to the confine of his room.

Dick’s bedroom is purposefully located on the opposite end of a long corridor. With all that space and silence between them, it is impossible not to hear the coughing at night.

Bruce asks Alfred to purchase some syrup.

A week later, he discovers the bottle unopened in the boy’s medicine chest.

The endless fall of snow inspires him to light the fireplaces. Alfred makes a sweep of the house and in just a few hours, a crackling warmth and smoky incense wafts through Wayne Manor. Bruce smiles and holds out hope. Hope that Dick will know he cares.

Dick never once leaves his room.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
It is late Monday evening and he is ready to turn in. Reviewing contracts and signing vouchers is a mundane necessity he does not welcome but a manageable one. Over the weekend, the boy’s cough has turned to barking hacks, loud enough for Bruce to request Alfred’s medical training. The butler seems to be the only human Dick allows to breach his inner sanctum.

Minutes later, Alfred confirms a chest cold. Bruce frowns in sympathy and orders soup for lunch. Then he gives Alfred the night off.

The boy must have assumed, Bruce guessed, that he was deaf, dumb and blind to the coughing fits that go skillfully suppressed by day, and amplify at night. Bruce sits, absently poring through pages of legal ledger, listening for the boy to fall asleep so he can turn in. Bats have impeccable ears.

He does not expect to hear a click and the unmistakable pad of bare feet across the carpet.

He sighs. It’s about time.

Hunter that he is, it doesn’t take much for him to locate the small boy. Dick has clambered up onto the kitchen counter in his pajamas, eyes searching the expanse of dry goods and spices.

The dazed boy nearly stumbles in surprise when Bruce shuffles in meekly, clearing his throat without the first idea of what to do or say. Taking a child raised on the edge of a wire by surprise sends a small shiver down his spine. Dick is clearly ill. Two bright spots of pink stand out on his cheek, heightened by his alarm. His dark hair falls damp and limp across his forehead. His wrists are hidden in the too-long sleeves of the cotton striped pajamas he is wearing. Bruce makes a mental note to buy better fitting ones.

“S-sorry.” Speaking starts up the cough again. He looks guilty, like a thief caught red-handed. After all these months, he has still not internalized that this is his home. "J-Just need to find something.”

“What is it?” Bruce himself has limited knowledge of his own larder. The kitchen is Alfred’s realm. 

“Nothing. Never mind.” Dick mumbles, drawing away at Bruce’s approach. Both father and son look as though they’d like the floor to swallow them up. Dick pushes himself glumly off the counter, shoulders hunched, ready to rush past the tall man in the doorway, but Bruce does not give. Awkwardly, he stands stock still. Waiting for Bruce to let him leave. Bruce has no intention of doing so.

Without warning, Dick's lungs seize and explode in a fit of coughing. His face scrunches in pain as he tries to hide the noise behind a too-long sleeve.

“Something wrong with the syrup?” Bruce asks.

The child's baleful glare darkens, cheeks reddening in shame. “C-Can’t read…the label. Don’t know how much to take.”

At that moment, Bruce wants to hit himself. English is not Dick's first language.

“Why don’t we get some now?” He offers. "Sounds like you could use it." The boy shakes his head.

“Um. I always use honey for a cough. Honey and some spicy stuff.”

Bruce ponders his larder. That leaves a lot open to interpretation. He has no idea what this so-called "spicy stuff" could be but if Dick's heritage is anything to go by, ginger or some other anti-inflammatory herb is the likeliest suspect.

“Why don’t I make us some tea?" He offers in all intended gentleness. "If I have any honey or spicy stuff, I’ll throw some in for you. Go on up to bed now.” It occurs to him that, for the first time, he is addressing his ward like a subordinate. Like a real son. It's the most words he's exchanged with him since the court finalization.

Dick sways on his feet, so tired he can hardly stand.

“No thanks.” He mumbles. The coughing starts again, booming deep within his chest, leaving him trembling and fighting for breath when it is done. Bruce moves forward in alarm, his large hand hovering over the boy’s trembling shoulder blades. “Hey there, you don’t sound g—“

Dick recoils, face white as paper. “I don’t need your help!”

Bruce is taken aback, shocked into momentary silence. He isn’t accustomed to being spoken to like that by anyone, least of all in his own house.

“Now see here, Dick!” His hand comes down firmly and grasps the thin shoulder, disarmed by the heat wafting off the small body. “I am your…your guardian now and you will not address me in this way!”

Clearly, reaffirming his position in their excuse of a relationship does nothing to ease the boy’s tension. Bruce reconsiders, checks his tone.

“Please. I want to help you.”

“You can’t help.” Dick scowls, swiping at his lips where some spittle had escaped. “I just want to be left alone in my Hell.”

His first instinct is to scold. A boy so young should not be familiar with such words. He's taken aback by it. But the hardness in his eyes betrays his age--he is no longer the boy he once was. Bruce lowers himself down to one knee so he can better see Dick’s eyes. His height towering over the boy only widens the distance between them.

“I know. Believe me.” 

Bruce wants to say more but checks himself. The focus is on Dick. "But you shouldn't be alone right now, Dick."

A strange look passes across the boy’s face, one readied to rebuke but falls short. Dick takes a shaky step towards Bruce, stretches out his small hand to rest on Bruce’s forearm.  


Now that they are level, he can see just how flushed the boy is, how weak and utterly scared.

“M-Mr. Wayne?” He shudders against his shoulder. “I don’t…don’t feel good.”  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
He’s opts for his own bed to place Dick. Dick’s bed has been occupied and is most likely mussed, damp and uncomfortable. He won’t be getting much if any sleep tonight. Bruce relies on facts. Numbers. Figures. Outcomes. He takes the boy’s temperature and charts it, hoping that forced intervals of water and children’s medicine will flush the virus out and halt the fever in its tracks.  


Neither of them are that lucky, of course.

Despite Bruce’s vigilance, Dick’s breathing worsens as the hours tick by. He doesn’t speak to Bruce again because he doesn’t register where he is anymore. He tosses and turns on the wide bed, kicking off the covers despite his shivers. He nearly lands a punch to Bruce’s cheekbone when Bruce leans closer to quiet his distress.

Things go from bad to worse very quickly.

Bruce wants to kick himself for his initial dread. Not for the boy’s dire state, but for the headlines when the bloodhounds find out. Bruce Wayne rushes adopted ward to emergency room. Bruce Wayne Too Busy for Fatherhood? He wants to shake himself from these absurd thoughts and focus. Dick’s coughing brings the clench in his stomach back. 

He’s so hot he’s speaking another language.

When the thermometer blinks an alarming hundred and three degrees, Bruce makes the executive decision to pick up the phone and dial. 

The woman who cared. The one who had done her best to ease his pain when his parents’ lives were stolen from him. If anyone could save the day, she could.  


It’s 3 AM and she has the late shift, thank God. She’ll be pissed but the generous contribution he intends to make towards her clinic will soften the blow. He can’t face Gotham General and their too white walls and chemical stench. He doesn’t want to expose Dick to even more germs or the blood-hungry press

He tries to ensure his voice does not waver when Leslie herself picks up. 

“Leslie, its Bruce. I need you.”

“I don’t do house calls.” She snaps. “Not even for the Waynes.”

“Leslie, please. Dick has a fever.” He babbles, hating the way he sounds. Dick stirs on the bed beside him and he is grateful the boy is too woozy to hear him botching his words like this. 

“Bruce Wayne can’t manage a fever?” Leslie’s chuckle is more drained than irritated.

“No, listen to me dammit! There’s rales in his breathing, temp 103--”

His urgent prattle of stats is cut neatly off by a ring tone. He sags in relief. She’s on her way.

The sun is barely rising when the buzzer rings downstairs. Leslie still has on her white coat. Her greying hair is plaited tightly away from her eyes and she is all business when she enters the bedroom. 

“Sit him up.” She orders, tugging on the stethoscope she never removed from her late shift. 

Bruce obeys, propping Dick’s small body up against the cushions. They've slid in disarray with the boy’s delirious movements, but the elevated position made air easier to introduce to inflamed bronchi. Bruce fumbles with the buttons of Dick’s night shirt but Leslie nudges him impatiently out of the way, pushing aside the pajama collar to press her stethoscope against his chest.

At her touch, Dick’s eyes flutter open and he moans, bothered by the intrusion. Bruce studies her face carefully, noting how she winces at Dick's struggle to breathe, at the way Dick fusses like the actual child he is and tries to push her away.

“Hold still, honey.” Leslie steadies him with a solid hand on his shoulder, shifting the bell to his back as he coughs out another grinding hack from deep within his chest. “Almost done. Can you take a deep breath for me?” 

Feverish, Dick squirms under her handling, upset and confused. She is, as ever, firm and methodical. She has handled children on the brink before. Her voice adopts a reassuring tone as she speaks to him, urging him to calm. She listens intently to his chest and back, then reaches for her bag to check his blood pressure. 

“Make yourself useful.” She tells Bruce who stands there like a mannequin with sweaty palms. “Take his temperature.”

Dumbly, Bruce nods and moves to obey, picking up the thermometer from its resting place on the night table.

Leslie grumbles as she checks his pulse. “How long has he been symptomatic?”

Bruce wracks his brain, trying to remember when he’d noticed the coughing. “I noted the cough about a week ago. He's been keeping himself scarce. When the weather started to shift—“ Leslie huffs a tired, non-committal response which silences him. She is one of the few people on the planet who can.

Dick doesn’t put up much resistance when Bruce slips the thermometer under his tongue for the fifth or sixth time that night. The kid is half conscious anyway. Leslie has finished scribbling down her notes and tears off a green sheet of paper, handing it to Bruce. While he tries to make out her scrawling, she removes the thermometer from Dick’s mouth and holds it up to the light, squinting. If the number effects her, her reaction doesn’t show.

“Verdict?” He asks. Leslie lifts her glasses to rub the bridge of her nose.

“Chest infection. Pretty advanced. Likely bronchitis or pneumonia, I’ll know more once the labs come back. I’ve written you a scrip for antibiotics which he should start immediately.” 

“This came on very sudden.” Bruce spreads his hands helplessly, another thing he's not comfortable with.

“I bet it did.” Leslie agrees. "Kids are fine one minute, the next they're dying.” Bruce tugs the blankets up to cover Dick’s chest. Dick pushes his sweaty forehead into his hand, restless and incoherent. His murmuring vibrates uncomfortably in his inflamed throat.

“Is there something you can give him now?”

Leslie shakes her head. “He should bounce right back once we start him on intravenous medication. I take it your butler has the necessary equipment?”

“He does.” Bruce responds distantly, wanting to be miles away but knowing he cannot be. Still, something inside him will not let him move. For once, he has no recourse, no clue of what action to wake. Leslie catches on lightening-fast and snaps.

“Dammit, Bruce! You’re the boy’s father now. He’s sick. Pick him up. Hug him. Hold him for a while. Lord above Bruce, you’re hopeless!”

Bruce wants to protest. But he wouldn't let me near him! How was I supposed to know? He's no ordinary child! So many excuses--all of them pointed at the boy now lying sick in his bed--sound foolish in his head so he swallows them before they can be voiced.

Bruce balks at her reproach but Dick is more important than his pride at this moment. He brushes aside the dark bangs from the boy’s hot forehead with his fingers. He hardly knows what to say to the child but then, that's been an issue from day one. 

“Dick. You’re okay.”

His words sound useless even to him. He doubts they even register to the feverish boy.

Dick’s only response is a whimper. 

Carefully, Bruce gathers the limp body in his arms, silently alarmed at how light he is. A quick glance around and he settles on the armchair by the fireplace.  
In sympathy, Leslie starts rummaging through her bag.

“Mighta brought a dose of broad spectrum with me.” She mutters. “Hold him still while I prep it.”

The fireplace is warm and inviting, the smell of wood smoke calms his frayed nerves. Dick leans against his chest bonelessly, too weak and exhausted to care whose arms embrace him. Bruce feels like an imposter. 

Leslie steps forward, alcohol swipe in hand. She deftly tugs down the boy’s shirt, baring his shoulder. Dick cringes and moans. Leslie meets Bruce’s gaze.

“On three. One, two…”

Dick makes a sound Bruce never thought he would hear this child make when the needle goes in.

Both he and Dick relax when it is over. Leslie straightens her back with a small grunt.

“Okay. All set.” 

“I can’t do this, Leslie.” Bruce mutters into Dick’s hair.

She hums but, infuriatingly, says nothing. 

“I lost mine too early.” He laments. “What made me think I could be a father?”

“No one held a gun to your head, Bruce.”

“They held the gun to my head when they left Dick alive. He had that look, Leslie. You remember.”

“Sadly, I do.” She sighs. “The sorrow of a boy grown up too fast.” Her fingers trace Bruce’s cheek in a gesture of kindness but he grimaces.

“I didn’t ask for your sympathy.” He growls.

“Yes, you did.” Leslie corrects him, snapping her medical bag closed. She is ready to leave . “He’ll be out for a couple hours. He might be confused when he wakes up so be prepared to handle that. Keep recording his temperature. I’ll see myself out.”

“Thank you.” 

Something hardens in Bruce’s eyes as his fingers card through his son’s soft hair. The medicine works fast and already Dick’s breathing is steadier. This comforts the ache growing in Bruce's belly. He had failed to protect his son, even from himself. 

_I’ve let you down. I promise. It won’t happen again._

Bruce never speaks these words aloud but Dick burrows his head closer into his neck, clinging to him. He can't quite name this. For all Dick knows in his child's fevered brain, he's back in a train car in the strong arms of his Deda or the lap of his mother. His small arms curl around Bruce's shoulders and only then does he appear like the child he is. Bruce pats his back, hoping to loosen up some of the grit clogging up the boy's lungs, make the task of breathing easier for him. He feels inexplicable sadness for Dick Grayson and helpless anger for himself gnawing away at his insides. He can never replace what Dick has lost, not for all the money or wisdom on the planet. He's just all there is.

Outside it is still dark and the snow is still falling, rushing up and down with every passing gale.

"Let's watch the snow dance, chum." He whispers. "What do you say?"

The tickle of Dick's lashes flutter against his throat.


	4. Behind Your Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick wants to prove himself the only way he knows how...breaking the rules.

Four years of battle can age a person in warped ways. Days feel longer, months swirl into eternities soaked in blood. Years don’t even factor in anymore and age becomes truly nothing but a number. He’s had his definition of pain redefined ten times over and each time Bruce had reminded him to count his blessings. He’s had his failures become his personal dogma and he’s forgotten the taste of chocolate milk. He’s been trained never to flinch or waver against any onslaught. To wait until the target shows itself or what have all those freezing night vigils atop Gotham’s rooftops been worth?

Timing was important then, when he’d waited for a cue high above a spellbound audience. It was just as important now.

But Dick Grayson can’t help what he is. He is a teen and this wait is killing him.

Even after all this time, he’s not sure what he is anymore. Dick Grayson, fourteen year old whiz kid? Or Robin, Boy Wonder, an ageless freak fighting an eternal battle?

Three Days.

Three days waiting on Bruce to decide whether or not he is worth the blood, sweat and years of training; whether he is worth taking a risk on a fledgling team of fighters.

How did it take Batman—one of the greatest detectives and superheroes in the League--three days to determine what he already knew? Cadmus learned it quick enough, the underground networks knew it, why didn’t Bruce? At only thirteen he’d survived four years under his utility belt, side by side with the legend himself.

Surely this qualified him.

Dick taps his pencil pensively against his notebook, his mind occupied by everything but the mundane science notes he’s meant to be cramming. Trying to distract himself with the rigmarole of civilian academic s is fruitless. 

What if Batman reneged? There was more than just his own selfish pride at stake. What would become of Superboy? The clone had made it clear to the League that he neither required nor demanded their consent. Unlike the rest of them, he had no ties. Would they turn vigilante as Speedy had done? Or would they all remain stagnant like dreams deferred? 

Crap, American Literature Thesis due next week.

Dick buries his face in his arms folded across his desk.

Disobedience has consequences in all things but going against Bruce—the man he had come to identify as father—was a different matter. Very few things scared him save for Bruce’s rage. It’s a risk he still has reservations about.

Robin paussd.

The sound of Wally’s feet sliding on the tiles above his window, ungraceful as ever, breaks his train of thought. A familial snort rolled in the back of this throat as he sits up, letting the book that he isn't reading slide into his lap. He never worried that it might be someone else approaching - someone that meant him harm - for that person would at least aim for stealth and silence. Wally just aimed for quiet and failed, impressively.

Dick does him a favor by opening his window. 

“We have a front door, Wally.” Dick reminds him.

“This way keeps Alfred on his toes.” Wally grins, his moonlike freckled face a target against the night sky. “Besides, I need to put in more practical hours towards stealth.” 

Dick raises a dubious eyebrow. Clad in a pair of jeans and a plaid flannel, he looks far from anything that could bypass Wayne Tech security. Not that a bright yellow and red speedo was in any way covert. 

“How did you get past Alfred?” High tech manor security was one thing, Alfred was quite another. 

“I didn’t.” Wally didn’t seem particularly concerned, ripping open a bag of skittles and pouring half the rainbow in his mouth. “Dude damn near evened out my fade!” 

“Alfred doesn’t miss.” 

Unfazed, Wally swings his weight over the sill. “Alfred wasn’t trained to hit targets moving fast enough to break the sound barrier.”

“So to what do I owe this visit?”

“Boredom.”

“It’s like you read my mind.”

“Wrong super power, boy wonder.” Dick dodges a red candy whizzing past his nose. “What’s up in the real world? How’s ninth grade?”

“Mathletes Championship in Delaware. They’ve got me early in the lineup. Oh, and Summerfest but…” He shrugs, noncommittally. “…haven’t thought about who I’m asking.”

“Could always take me?” Wally grins. 

“Outta my league.” 

Wally’s futile attempts at small talk are always debunked by his own curiosity. Dick follows his gaze as it lands on his laptop.

“You’re spying on him.” Wally’s interest is peaked.

“Like I have a choice?” Dick scowls. “Anyway, he’s been quiet.” 

“That unusual?” Wally asks. “Bats isn’t known for his block parties.”

“Or his unflagging confidence in me.” Dick groans, deflating back into his chair. “For someone with his brains, he sure takes a long time making a decision.”

“It’s not that he doesn’t trust you.” Wally’s voice gentles. “He’s probably weighing the odds. Let’s face it kid, Bruce Wayne doesn’t put his family on the front lines just like that.”

“Sometimes I dunno if he knows the difference between partner or son.”

Wally hums sympathetically. He’s feeling the wait too. Doubt from his mentor creates even more self-doubt than there had been. Still, he’s an optimist and not one to dwell. He folds his hands behind his head.

“Welp, kid. If I have learned anything in my fifteen years, it’s that evil never sleeps.”

“Or recognizes summer break.” Dick moans ruefully. 

“Who cares about that? We’re on the verge of becoming more badass than the League!”

“Key word: verge. We’re not there yet, KF. Batman keeps everyone at arm’s length, not even Martian Manhunter can pry secrets outta Batman when he wants to shut him out.”

“Yeah, but does he shut you out?”

Dick averts his eyes. “Only all the time.”

“Well, you may not be able to tap into the Bat Brain but you can certainly override the Bat Computer, can’t you?”

Dick gulps. When he’d pulled the exact same stunt to look up Cadmus not long ago, Batman’s reaction had been less than understanding. Batman  
never did appreciate his forte for subterfuge, code-cracking and intel-gathering.

“No harm in just looking, right?”

“Transmissions to the Bat Cave are heavily coded, Wally.” Dick sighs, pushing away from his desk. “Anyway, if Batman found out I’d been tapping into his feed, he’d—“

“He’d what? Come on, you said he needs proof that we were ready, right? What more proof would he require than gaining one step ahead of him?”

“It’s not right, Wally.”

“Yeah? Well, neither is this three day wait. We’re ready whether he thinks so or not! I say we show him just how ready we are.”  
It’s scary how fast Wally can talk him into things.

“We’re gonna be bad, aren’t we?”

Dick releases the breath he’s been holding, spins around on his chair and initiates security override.  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Gotham Shipping & Freight Inc.

Dick’s gauntlet is offline. Nothing going in or out. The feed is dead which means they know they’re being watched. Wally is gone, circling the parameter in his stealth mode. Hopefully he hasn’t been seen and if he has, hopefully he’s too slippery to be caught. Wally is bad at staying in one place concealed, quite the opposite of himself.

Working instinctively had its creative flaws—sabotage without a plan never bodes well but not even Batman pre-planned every hack in the code or step in the game. Improvisation has always been part of field work.

Guests can always show up late to a party or worse, uninvited, and turn a quick mission into a fiasco. A hit and run turning to hit, push, shove, and haul. 

Robin scans the generated lists of data as they spiral across his hologram screen. The bypass codes are tricky but he hasn’t memorized his codes for nothing. What do his teachers think he gets up to in study hall?  
Kobra Inc. They’re tracking movement across several coordinates in the Eastern Hemisphere. Acquisition lists. Cross-referenced data. All of it a veritable goldmine. Bruce has never gotten this close to Kobra—he lets deductions and logic do the guesswork. With these feeds, he won’t have to guess.

Bruce will be furious but he will simmer down and let him live another day once this intel is in his possession. Just a few more algorithims to unravel and he can download, duck and dip. His eyes train hard on the pages of data streaming across the interface. There has to be something here that Batman hasn’t already--

A white hot pain bursts behind his shoulder blade.

He can’t breathe.

The rank of a leather sheathed hand presses over his face, stifling the gasp that should have been a scream. Wet warmth bubbles from his lips, spill through the fingers clamped tight over his mouth. 

“Access denied, Bat Brat.”

He is pinned, Sportsmaster’s arm tightening around his chest while the other muffles his strangles choking. Each attempt his lungs make to inflate results in blinding pain. A shaky, horrified glance down at his punctured chest reveals the tip of the javelin jutting out beneath his collar bone.  
He only knows he is alive because he can feel the frantic muscle in his chest tap sickeningly and involuntarily against the steel rod parallel to it.

“You breathe too loud, kid.” Sportsmaster informs casually, twisting the steel rod in further. "Lemme fix that for ya."

Stupid. He can mask his heat signature. He can cloak his own shape. He can erase every digital footstep he makes but he cannot alter his breath so close to a mark.

Adrenaline pumps the blood faster down his chest. Distantly he is aware of its wet heat running down his legs. Fight or flight? Neither are an option at the moment. Amazingly, this is not a kill strike. Sportsmaster is not only a professional—he is a prodigy. The javelin has penetrated neatly through the soft tissue in the narrow rifts between ribs, the chinks in his skeletal armor. A lifetime of training informs such skill, to pierce a living victim; skewered but alive. The vulnerable places on the human body he reads like a map. Ergo he knows when and where to adjust for a thirteen year old in the dark.

With ebbing consciousness, the back of Dick’s brain scratches at facts, gropes for options. _Don’t bleed out. Don’t bleed out._

Sportsmaster removes his hand when he realizes his victim’s mouth is filling with blood. It lowers, wrapping around his chest, feels the vibrations of his body shift from panicked to some semblance of control, fighting to regain order. He’s trying to calm, trying to reduce blood loss, trying to stay awake.

“You honestly think you’re walking away from this?” He huffs an appreciative laugh against his back. 

All he knows is he must get away before Sportsmaster can twist the javelin upward and out. Once the plug is gone, he’ll bleed out too quickly. But as long as he can’t move, neither can his captor.

He does not see or feel the blur that is Kid Flash slam with the force of a Nascar into Sportmaster’s blind side. 

Robin collapses to one knee and suddenly his one job is to keep breathing. His vision whites out and in. There is a scuffle on his blind side, Flash making use of every object he can use as a missile against Sportsmaster. Kid has agility but Sportsmaster is bigger, stronger and has a longer resume. Robin’s vision wavers as he fights to stand, numb fingers clutching at his gauntlet, searching for the distress signal. He isn’t going to leave Kid alone. He isn’t going to fail.

“Rob, stay awake!”

A buzz like radio interference. Static drowns out his friend’s command. 

“Flash.” Another voice—sharp and deep breaks through the static.

An explosion from above. Connor. In attack mode.

Suddenly the world is plunged into chaos and Robin cannot move. Sportsmaster’s enraged yells as he is lifted and flung easily into the glass ceiling. Shards rain down against his cloak, Robin distantly feels them plink around him as he raises his arms for cover.

There is no hiding this wound. 

The javelin is lodged at a slant, the bloodied barb protruding skyward and twitching sickeningly with his heartbeat. Its metal end scrapes against the floor with each labored breath.

Batman. Steps into the light. Crouches down.

“How long?”

“I don’t…I don’t know.” Kid gulps.

“He doesn’t have a lot of time!” Connor’s voice shouts from above him.

“Have you contacted the League?” Bruce asks calmly.

“No, they’re blocking any sort of signal,” Connor replies, “We would have to get farther away from the compound in order to get any sort of relay .”

Robin feels a firm hand on his shoulder. He can’t quite see anymore but he can hear and smell. He knows Batman’s scent like he knows his own footstep. He flinches in pain when Batman’s gloved hand curls tight around the long edge of the javelin. There is no emotion to his voice. No sense that Batman is watching his ward bleed out in front of him.

“This’ll have to be shortened if we’re to move him.” Batman says calmly. “Connor, can you?” 

Connor’s face looms close. Unlike Batman, he at least apologizes.

“Sorry Rob, I’ll be quick.” He promises.

Robin barely has a second to brace himself before the metal rod in his body shifts, sending bolts of white hot pain through his chest. Connor is as careful as he can be, bending the steel until it snaps in his hand. Robin can’t help crying out as it wrenches in Connor’s grasp. The rest of the metal he leaves plugged firmly inside flesh. Batman’s fingers prod at his neck, checking his vitals.

“His pressure is bottoming out fast.” Connor speaks. “We have to move.”

“Stay awake, Robin.” Batman’s voice orders harshly. “You’re going to be fine.”

Robin knows he’s disobeyed enough orders tonight. He fights the blackness creeping into his vision as he is lifted, tries to regulate his breathing so he can at least walk away from this defeat. But he’s not able to command his limbs. The breath wheezes in and out of him and all he can taste or smell is blood. He can’t tell if it’s Bruce or Connor lifting his body up and out. 

Against his will, Robin’s eyes flutter closed. He can’t stay awake but he’s almost sure he can be fine.  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
“This job relies on trust, Dick. Tonight you betrayed that trust and nearly cost me a partner.”

Dick flinches. Bruce never says the word “son”.

“You deliberately disobeyed orders. You and Kid Flash were anything but covert and even more alarming, not once did you adhere to any one of your codas of training.”

 _Except survive._ Dick thinks but he knows better than to speak. He’s not even sure he can, his throat is raw from the intubation he’s been on for the past five days. His lungs ache with each breath and, according to Alfred, he’s lucky his heart is still in the right place.

“If you’re going to act too young for this job, I will take that burden off your shoulders before the Joker or the Riddler or Two-Face end up doing it for me permanently!”

Dick just lies there, hands curled into fists. He can hear the way his heartbeat picks up from the telemetry monitor taped to his chest. He has nothing and everything to say.

“If I needed an angry punk with a death wish to help me keep these streets clean, believe me any one of the addicts Leslie treats at her clinic would do! I trained you to be better.”

Dick begs the floor to swallow him whole. 

“For four years, I have trusted you to have my back out there in the streets, not go behind it. Give me one good reason why I should not only forbid this folly of a covert operations team but relieve you of your title altogether?”

Dick recoils as though he’s been struck. These words hurt worse than the javelin going in. He honestly can’t decide. 

Alfred speaks.

“If I may sir?”

Dick’s cheeks are already wet and the stitches in his chest are pulling painfully with his suppressed sobs but he remains silent, stoic. 

“I believe in this case, Master Dick bit off more than he could chew, as the saying goes.”

“Make your point, Alfred.”

“Prodigious though he may be, Master Dick is still a youth. Therefore, he is by his very nature prone to the follies of his youth.”

“He’s not allowed folly. I sure as hell, wasn’t.”

“Language, sir.”

Bruce sneers.

“My point is, Master Bruce, that none of your expertise was earned without sacrifice. The boy will have to learn as you did, the dangers of heroism. If he is ever to progress, there is no protecting him from his decisions. Master Dick will no doubt be a changed individual after tonight and your access codes will have genuine security algorithms.”

Bruce’s face darkens. He glares down at Dick who sits frozen and pale as a ghost on the gurney. His bared chest heaves but he makes no sound.

“See that they do.” And he is gone. 

Dick deflates, trembling harshly. Bruce's departure feels like a weight dissolved on his chest. He feels sick all over again, struggling to breathe. His mentor's words have cut him to the core, echoing in his head over and over again.

Alfred places a hand on his head. It's the closest he comes to gentle

“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him this frightened.” He comments.

Dick breathes loudly, releasing the air he’s pent up though the very act pains him. Alfred, not blind to this, quietly adjusts the morphine drip. Picking up his wrist, he takes Dick’s pulse as the clear liquid flows at an increased rate through his bloodstream.

“You should be feeling more comfortable shortly, Master Dick.” He removes his gloves. “I know you are deeply humiliated but I have no known narcotic on hand to remedy that. Would you like a sedative, sir?”

Numbly, Dick shakes his head. Even with the amped morphine, his chest aches and the look on Bruce’s face won’t disappear behind his closed eyes.

“I believe you owe that sullen Kryptonian a vote of gratitude. It was he who bent the barb to help me remove it. If the vile thing had deviated any further to the left, young sir…”

Dick waves his hand, dismissive. He knows now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait between chapters! I got sidelined by other fandoms! More chapters to come!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading!
> 
> I have quite a few ideas for further chapters. I'd love to insert Slade into the Young Justice Universe, making Nightwing's life a living Hell.
> 
> Or lock him in a meat locker with Wally and misplace the Key.
> 
> Or see how he'd fare in a losing battle against the Joker.
> 
> Or put his life in Zatana's hands. 
> 
> Or HI FEAR TOXIN!


End file.
